I am slowed. Stilled to the point that I watch seedlings grow and bread rise. I hear the bird nest near the window, my dogs wet paws on the kitchen floor. I smell rain even though it isn’t here yet. The sea tosses and turns, but I am still.
We are still here, testament of some kind, and we are the lucky ones. Being restless is useless. Feeling cheated out of something we felt was rightfully ours is gone too. Anger, like melted butter in the pan. The feelings go more than they come these days. We’re settled in and stilled. In some ways, I’ve never been happier.
The world is narrowed to that of my windowsill. Whatever I worried about before seems to have left on the last tide. I have less and want less, and more than that, I am less afraid of what comes next. There is a kind of grace in knowing nothing will be the same. If not then, than what.
A friend tells me maybe this is truly living. Plans being taken away, given over to the mercy of what comes next. Shouldn’t we be able to just let life happen, and discover the next move rather than achingly plan it. Shouldn’t life be sort of, something like, a surprise.
Time has taken on an entirely other quality, thick like molasses some hours, thin like bath water for others. It slows and speeds up at it’s own will. Has it been days or weeks since we last spoke? Does it matter anymore?
We talk about where we will go next and orange trees and grape vines and skylights. We talk about what’s for dinner and who won the last hand of cards. We talk about babies and green grass and the dog on the corner that barks when we take our evening walk. We talk about the weather like a house guest, and your mother, and that one time I took a trip to Spain.
I end every conversation with, I miss you.